CHAPTER
TWENTY TWO
EDWARD
MONTFORD'S WORST DAY
The
garden was 4 am quiet. There wasn't a breath of wind and a vast heat
was draped over the city. How hot was it? It had to be at least
eighty. The first hints of dawn were offering a vague hint of red to
blend in with the orange glow of a million street lights.
The
Prime Minister was half slumped on a bench in his shirt sleeves. He
knew he really should be trying to snatch at least a couple of hours
to fortify him for the day. But sleep was becoming increasingly
elusive. When had he actually slept in a bed? Christ. Weeks ago.
Once
his wife had stormed out of Downing Street to take up permanent
residence in their house in the country he hadn't bothered with the
bedroom. What an ultimate bitch she had become. Her absence was
actually a blessed relief, though the tabloid speculation about the
state of their marriage was a bloody pain. So be it. He had bigger
fish to fry. Maybe it was something for him to have a cosy chat about
with Hayden De Koch. What price would Holbrooke put on getting rid of
a PM's wife? The thought brought a small bitter smile to his skeletal
face.
He
was far too lost in the thought to hear the approaching footsteps of
his older brother.
“For
fuck's sake Edward, this is getting beyond a joke.”
Montford
wearily turned his head to take in his older brother. Sixty seven now
and still a picture of fucking health. And of course, he had his
usual smug look. Edward had never met anyone as smug. Big brother
Giles had been a smug prick from the moment he filled his first
nappy. For years he had grown fat from treating London's army of
oligarchs from his Harley Street surgery. The scum of the earth who
chose the safety of London to stash their dirty money. £500 for a
thirty minute consultation.
“What
is getting beyond a joke, Giles?”
“Phone
calls at three in the fucking morning, that's what. Get to fucking
Downing Street. I've just about had enough of this Edward.”
Another
flash of a bitter smile. "Oh isn't life tragic, Giles? Sit down
and for Christ's sake stop the bleating. Have you got them?"
His
brother sat and passed over a pack of Oxycontin. And now he adopted
his concerned doctor voice. "I have done the maths Edward.
You're using over 20 a day. This is a serious addiction. You know
this?"
The
Prime Minister popped three pills from the sleeve and swallowed them.
"Yes, Giles I know. And I know it isn't any kind of problem,
because when I need a re-supply all I need to do is call my big
brother and he will come trotting over like a good chap and sort me
out. It's not like I have to go out shoplifting to feed the habit."
“It
would be ethically wrong for me to....”
“Oh
fuck off with your ethics Giles. You don't know the meaning of the
word.”
“Well
if you're this way out I might as well....” The doctor made to get
to his feet but was eased back down by a claw like hand on the
shoulder.
Edward
closed his eyes for a moment and eased back his rising anger. His
temper was becoming a problem. In truth, it always had been. The
constant flow of opiates through his bloodstream allowed him a degree
of honest self-evaluation. He had been a bully at school. He had been
a brat with his parents. He had beaten two wives. He had raged at his
children. He was brutal with staff. It was odd really. He had been
blessed with everything most people could only dream off. The rich
family, the expensive education, good looks, sporting prowess,
Oxford, the City. And now the top job. And yet he had never found a
way to stop being angry all the time. His fuse never lengthened.
Twelve
months earlier he had been really bad. As the riots spread across the
country he had been at a constant boiling point. Through those dire
weeks when it looked like the country might completely disintegrate,
he had driven himself through day after day with tumblers of vodka.
Not that heavy drinking was anything new. He had been a drinker for
as far back as he could remember. Both of his wives had at times
screamed the word alcoholic at him in their rage. He had always
ignored them. Air head bitches. But in the summer of the riots, he
had been forced to accept the truth as he ran through at least a
bottle a day.
In
the third week of the crisis, a gnawing pain in his gut started to
pick him apart. He called his brother who told him he had an ulcer.
He needed less stress, more rest and a decent diet. Oh. And no booze.
And the Prime Minister had screamed at his older brother with a face
twisted in rage. Time off! What fucking planet are you living on?
Maybe you haven't noticed, but this fucking shit heap of a country is
about to go all the way down the toilet and I am the fucking Prime
Minister so don't talk to me about fucking time off you smug fucking
prick.....
Giles
had shrunk from him with a look of disgust. The look had been like
cold water. The rage eased back a notch. His brother dug into his
case and pulled out a pack of Oxycontin.
“No
more than 5 a day. They'll keep the pain in check. Once things settle
down, you will need proper treatment.”
Another
sleeve of pills.
“These
will deal with the ulcer. Four a day. Eat better. Get more sleep. I
would prefer it if you found another doctor.”
As
if that was going to happen. And very soon Edward Montford discovered
the thing he had been waiting for all his life.
He
found his God.
The
Oxycontin took all his rage and ordered it into a controlled fury. He
regained control. The gnawing terror of failure fell away. He
achieved a clarity. Better still, he found he could do what needed to
be done without any kind of remorse. When he had shaken the hand of
Hayden De Koch, he had done so without a second thought. The
Oxycontin took away all the fear. Every last vestige. He became
unstoppable.
He
could sense the hate in his brother. Time to find some common ground.
“Come
on Giles. Sticks and bloody stones. It's just a few pills. Hardly the
biggest problem in the world right now.”
This
provoked a vague sort of grunt.
“Anyway.
There are a couple of things I need to go over.”
“Go
on.”
“You
need to start liquidating everything. Stocks, bonds, the lot. Mum as
well. Do it over the next three days and for Christ's sake be
discreet. Get Johnny Fraser to handle it. Move everything into US
dollars and put it all in the Antigua account.”
“Jesus,
Edward...”
“Here.
This is a letter giving you power of attorney to do the same with my
assets. Like I said. Maximum discretion. If this leaks I'll be
totally fucked.”
“What's
going on Edward?”
The
Prime Minister stared up into the slowly lightening sky. "It's
the tipping point, Giles. Things might go one way. Or they might go
the other. It's the time to get ready for a rainy day."
And
then Giles Montford did something his younger found to be profoundly
surprising. He smiled.
“A
rainy day? I don't think we need to worry ourselves too much about
the prospect of a rainy day. Check the weather forecast if you doubt
me. They don't seem to think it will ever rain again. Don't worry
about the money business. I'll sort it. I actually turned everything
into dollars a few months ago.”
The
Prime Minister bark out a laugh. “Quite a vote of confidence in
your brother.”
“Indeed.”
Giles
got up and left without saying goodbye. Edward resumed his upward
gaze into the growing light of the dawn. A tipping point? More like
last chance saloon. His 8 o'clock meeting would be as good an
indicator as any. He wasn't remotely optimistic about the outcome,
but sometimes things could work out better than expected.
Christ,
he was tired. The first Cobra meeting of the summer had finally ended
at 2 am. For hours they had watched footage from all over the country
and hoped against hope the new tactics would work. They had all known
the riots would kick off again. It was a 'when', not an 'if'. This
time they were determined to be prepared. New plans were signed off
and waiting for the day when the growing heat once again ignited the
streets. Previous protocols meant the police slowly escalated their
response whilst carefully following the letter of the law at every
step. Now things would be different. All forces had been ordered to
deploy maximum force at the first sign of disorder. They were to go
in hard. And they were to film it. The footage was to be made
available for the rolling news straight away. With luck and a
following wind, the images of a new uncompromising police approach
would be enough to stop the riots from spreading.
As
it turned out, the first riot of the summer had kicked off in
Huddersfield a little after three o’clock the previous afternoon. A
fifteen year old boy had been arrested for shop lifting. The police
had beaten him when he tried to run away and within minutes a group
of over fifty had gathered. Stones were thrown and two cars were set
on fire. The West Yorkshire police drove straight into the gathered
crowd with two well protected Landrovers. Three rioters were hit and
badly injured. Police in riot gear jumped out of the back the
vehicles and started dropping bodies to the ground with tasers. The
street was cleared in under thirty seconds and for a while an air of
optimism started to grow among the men and women of the Cobra
committee.
The
hope didn't last for long. Within forty five minutes a much larger
mob formed on Huddersfield's main drag. A pitched battle raged for
over an hour and when it was all over, seventy three rioters and
twenty one policemen were hospitalised. Three rioters were killed.
The
youngest was eleven years old.
As
the baking hot afternoon drifted into a baking hot evening it, seemed
almost as if the country was holding its breath. Would the pictures
from Huddersfield make other towns think twice? Maybe. At eight o'
clock the streets of England were still quiet.
At
9.15 Wolverhampton started
At
9.35 Salford joined in.
Lincoln,
Hartlepool, Oldham, Stevenage....
By
midnight the country was on fire again.
When
he dismissed Cobra, Edward Montford knew in his bones the tipping
point had all but arrived.
Time?
Just
before five. Maybe he could manage a couple of hours of sleep on the
couch? By now the opiates were smoothing away all the sharp edges.
At
seven his alarm dragged him back to life. He took three more Oxys and
a long shower. A white shirt. A regimental tie. Suit. Hard, dull eyes
in the mirror. A rattling bag of bones in an expensive suit.
Fuck
it.
He
had decided to have his eight o'clock meeting in the Cabinet Room.
Make the greedy bastards feel special. A sterling silver coffee pot
and a selection of freshly baked pastries.
Two
more Oxys and some charm.
“John...
Roger …. Thanks so much for coming …. please.... have a seat ….
both of you keeping well I hope....”
John
Moore. Chief Executive Officer of Barclays Bank PLC
Roger
Case. Chief Executive Officer of HSBC.
Two
self-styled masters of the universe who were getting ready to up
sticks and leave town. Two men who were about to desert the misery of
London and move their operations three hundred miles north to boom
town Edinburgh.
Two
filthy bloated rats readying themselves to jump ship.
Edward
poured coffee and offered cakes and radiated assurance. They all sat
at the Cabinet table. He cut to the chase with an easy smile. He
mentioned a little Dickie bird who had whispered in his ear. Maybe
Barclays and HSBC were about to do a bunk. Surely not....
One
look at their faces told him all he needed to know. Of course, he
knew their plans. But now he could see from the determined set of
their jaws they had no intention of changing their plans. But he had
to try. He had to give the dice one final roll.
He
offered a sweetheart tax deal. He offered to back date ten years. He
offered everything he had. He even offered them both a Knighthood.
All he got was shaking heads. They were sorry. They really were. But
London had become impossible. They couldn't recruit. All their best
people were disappearing to Paris and Frankfurt and Dublin.
And
Edinburgh of course.
People
were scared. They were scared to send their kids to school. They were
scared to drive to work. Their wives were scared to go out to the
shops. Overseas clients were scared to come to London.
Maybe
in a few years, they might look at things again. But now? No. Sorry.
Just not an option. Not now.
He
walked them out and kept a fixed smile all the way. Once they were
gone he felt like smashing up his office but took three more Oxys
instead.
Tick,
tock.
On
the dot of nine, the Chancellor of the Exchequer came in from the
house next door.
“How
did it go?”
Montford
shrugged. “Like we thought. They're going and nothing we can
promise is about to stop them.”
The
Chancellor sank into a chair. “Fuck.”
“Indeed.
What about the bond issue?”
Edward
asked the question but in reality, there was no need. One look at the
grey face was more than enough.
“About
as bad as it gets. We've put out feelers all over the world. We've
hinted at a three point premium over US 'T' bills and nobody wants to
know. I don't think they want to know at any price.”
“Beijing?"
“Not
even answering the phone.”
“Fuck.”
They
sat in silence for a few moments. Montford snapped out of it first.
“Have your people finished work on the contingency plan yet?”
“They
have. It's a nightmare, to be honest."
“No
surprise there then.”
They
had known for a few months the day would come when nobody in the
world would be willing to buy English treasury bonds. The budget
deficit had become overwhelming. Tax rises were out of the question.
The only option would be austerity measures the like of which nobody
had seen since the 1930's. A team of Number 11 boffins had been
working up the wish list of nightmares.
“So
go on.”
“Edited
highlights?”
“Please.”
“Well,
we both know there isn't an ounce of fat to be trimmed anywhere. And
tinkering at the edges isn't going to achieve anything. There's no
way we can avoid going to the IMF for some kind of bailout. What we
need to do now is get ourselves into some kind of acceptable shape.
Were we to go cap in hand now, they would laugh in our faces. So we
need to cut the big stuff. We need to cut and cut hard. There are a
hundred small measures, but these are the things which will keep the
house from falling down. All pensions down by 30% - that's the state
pension and all public sector pensions. £50 to see a GP. The first
£500 of the cost of any operation. £200 to be picked up by an
ambulance. No free school meals. No capital expenditure. A straight
10% off everything with the exception of the police of course."
“Holy
Christ.”
“Like
I said. A bloody nightmare.”
“OK.
Fine. Nothing I wasn't expecting if I'm honest. Leave it with me. I
will have my thoughts organised for the cabinet.”
The
punches kept coming. Left. Right. Head. Guts. Head again. And by the
evening half, the country would be out of the streets again.
Christ.
A
tap at the door. His secretary looking like she was about to have all
her teeth yanked out.
“Sorry
Prime Minister. It's Sir Charles Lampitt. He says it's urgent.”
“Fine.
Send him in please.”
Lampitt
entered along with a hint of the usual cologne.
“Hello,
Charles. Something tells me you're not about to make my day better."
“I
fear not Prime Minister.”
The
spymaster sat and carefully arranged the creases of his trousers and
eased the cuffs out from the sleeves of his jacket.
“The
floor is yours.”
“Yes.
I rather think it is. I'm afraid I have alarming news. I have just
been given the transcript of a meeting held in the offices of the
Guardian yesterday afternoon. A whistleblower in the Department of
the Environment has leaked all the Holbrooke material. All of it.
Contracts. Invoices. It seems the paper has engaged the services of
some ex-military types to conduct surveillance on Sellafield and
Hinkley Point. So basically they know. All of it."
Montford
felt like his bones had been deep frozen. He drew in a slow breath
and ordered himself to stay composed. He tried to ignore images of a
future which was suddenly roaring towards him like an express train
in the night.
Handcuffs.
Hard eyed policemen. Concrete walls. A metal toilet. Behind a screen
at The Hague.
“When
will they publish?”
“Everything
is with the lawyers. They want two weeks to look under every rock."
“Is
there a chance the lawyers will tell them not to publish?”
“Not
in my opinion. Not a chance in hell.”
“Anything
we can do? Some kind of 'D' notice?”
“No
point. They would merely put it online and the whole world would be
reading within seconds.”
“So,
two weeks?”
“Two
weeks.”
“Thank
you, Charles. I will be in touch."
Lampitt
slid from the room leaving the Prime Minister alone with the antique
clock on his desk.
Tick,
tock.
The
tipping point wasn't in the future anymore. The tipping point was
here. He swallowed more pills and rested his eyes.
He
was down to his last few chips. The time had come to go all in.
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